CASUALTY †

CHAPTER ONE

Afghanistan - Bagram Air Base
Coalition Intelligence Operations
April 2005

Robbie Kander stood on the tarmac and watched C-140 cargo planes jockey for position. Blurred by the waves of heat rising from the concrete, he witnessed the bustle of people as they darted between loading vehicles.

"Kander, ops brief in tent three. Fifteen minutes."

Robbie turned his head slightly, but kept his eyes on the tarmac. "Got it, Master Sergeant—fifteen minutes."

The cigarette in Robbie's hand smoldered near the filter. It burned down so that a long snake of ash curled toward the ground. In the fading sunset, he flicked the gray residue and watched the fine dust flutter in different directions. He rubbed the butt between his fingers and destroyed the remaining material. He turned away from the airfield and dropped the waste into a nearby fifty-five gallon drum used as a trash can.

The briefing tent was a short walk and when he entered the small space, ten soldiers dressed in a mixture of desert fatigues clustered in groups. Some told jokes, others exchanged heated opinions, but nobody acknowledged Robbie. Well-developed muscles rippled as he flexed his body. His tanned, exposed skin showed through the military green tank-top shirt stretched over his torso. Exposed thick ragged spider-webbed scars ran across his back and chest.

"Okay people, grab a seat."

The tall sergeant strode to the front and waited as the soldiers eased into chairs. Robbie grabbed a seat in the last row, alone, sat down, and hunched forward. With both hands, he massaged the stubble on top of his head.

"At zero, three-thirty we depart for Tango, X-ray, forty-four. Intelligence has a Taliban unit of at least one-hundred men holed up in a cave in the Hindu Kush mountain range. Word is they're holding underage boys and training them as killers. Strategically, they'll have the advantage, but you need to know they're responsible for that cluster-mess we ran into yesterday, in Jeharah."

A collective groan erupted from the men.

"How good is this intel, Serg?"

Another man quipped, "A cave at the top of a hill is a suicide mission Master Sergeant. If I remember, it didn't go well the last time we tried something like this."

The room erupted in chatter. Robbie listened and waited. It's always the same with these people; groan and complain, but they always get the job done.

The sergeant waited for the men to quiet down. "Okay, Diaz, you've got the point on this. Markson and Paully, I want you two snipers high and strategically placed to cover our backsides. You have the go to sharp-shoot any combatant that even farts.

Several guys snickered.

Markson stabbed his fist in the air. "Now, that's what I'm talking about."

"Settle down, everyone. Now the rest of you will sweep wide and move in with me. We're on radio silence 'cause I don't want these rag-heads catching wind before we're ready. Night vision on and watch my hand signals."

The room chatter erupted again.

"Hey cowboy?" cried out the sergeant.

Everyone stopped talking. A tall beefy soldier with a shaved head turned and faced the sergeant. Of all the people in this room, Cowboy was the only person, Robbie feared. The man had arms as thick as a Robbie's thigh. His shoulders sloped from the ears leaving zero neck. He rarely talked, but laughed easily. During a nasty incursion a few weeks past, Robbie watched Cowboy decapitate an enemy combatant with his bare hands.